


The return

by broceliande



Category: Unicorn and Dragon Series - Lynn Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-12-31
Updated: 2001-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:48:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26490676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/broceliande/pseuds/broceliande
Summary: Wildecent returns to Hafwynder Manor in the aftermath of the events ofConquest, believing that she has lost everything but the desire for revenge.
Relationships: alison/stephen, wildecent/ambrose





	The return

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this years ago as an attempt at a conclusion to the Unicorn and Dragon series, which Lynn Abbey has stated will most likely never be completed. Posting it here now for the sake of posterity (and backdating arbitrarily), on the off chance that someone else who has read these rather obscure books was also aching for a conclusion. 
> 
> (Note: this is an alt account and I will probably not be checking it all that often, but please know that I appreciate every comment/kudo/hit!)

Summer had just begun on the day that Wildecent returned to Hafwynder Manor, on a rare, sunlit morning after days of unceasing rain. The sky, washed clean and bluer than she remembered, and the trees, heavy with pale green leaves, only made the black weight on her heart seem heavier and more painful. 

Traveling disguised as a peasant boy through wild and unfamiliar territory, she had gone largely undisturbed, but still the tasks of avoiding detection and watching for danger in the woods had occupied most of her mind during the days she had been slowly making her way southward. But now, on familiar, friendly territory that she had known for years, there was nothing to keep her mind from dwelling darkly on the twin daggers in her heart of vengeance and love.

Brushing aside the bits of cracked tile and dust that she and Alison had carefully scattered over the mosaic floor, Wildecent uncovered the entrance to the bolt-hole and descended into the dry coolness inside. A thin coating of dust had gathered over the shelves, but otherwise it was as they had left it. Yet something was different, although nothing had been disturbed. She realized that it was she, and not the place, that had changed. Her completion of the ancient sacrifice and her encounter with the green gods had lifted the veil of head-blindness that had always made her feel unnecessary and inferior here with Alison and their lady aunt. Now it was finally as if she belonged here, as if she had been finally accepted by the powers that surrounded this place. It seemed that she could perceive silver lines of power passing through the room, and that one in particular was pulling her, drawing her down its length, and she was powerless to resist as she followed it out of the bolt-hole and into the woods to a small clearing, where she pressed her face against cool stone and closed her eyes. 

It seemed that she saw before her the very man who filled her heart and who tormented her soul, the one who fit like a glove over her every desire and whom she had vowed to punish for his treachery. The feel of black velvet against her cheek and his hand warm over hers as they slept in the shadow of a basket of light, the feeling of comfort and security. The scent of spices. The warmth that had spread through her when he had clasped her hand over his talisman, warmth that had not come entirely from the magic of the crystal. His dark eyes, his gentle hands. Ambrose, whom she loved with all of her soul and who had betrayed that love and condemned her sister Alison to shame and undoubtedly death. 

She saw Alison as she had last seen her, helpless with hands tied, being carried away to her certain doom while she, Wildecent, escaped into the forest. It seemed that her sister’s pained, frightened eyes pierced into her very being, first pleading, begging for help, then accusing her of abandoning her, of leaving her to the mercy of their abductors. _How could you leave me, Wili? How could you? How could you leave me to die while you ran away like a coward? How could you?_. . .

Alison’s voice inside her head grew louder and more insistent, until she was sure it was about to burst, when suddenly it and the vision of her sister vanished. She found herself at the edge of a flat and barren plain that stretched shimmering before her. Behind her rose the tall, straight trunks of ancient trees and she knew without turning around that there stood behind her the four great green kings, the last of whom wore the hero’s head, the head of Thorkel Longsword that she had severed with a silver sickle and brought to him, thus freeing her sister of the terrible geas that had been laid upon her. There appeared on the horizon a smear of red that was the sunrise, brilliant and harsh over the barren plains, and then a darker redness that slowly resolved itself into a group of blood-red horses and their red-clad riders. All were women, and all bore silver sickles at their waists. Wildecent realized that she too was carrying a silver sickle, but instead of the red garb worn by the riders, she stood naked before them. They drew to a halt before her, and with a start, she recognized the Lady Ygurna among them. Her aunt faced her, and spoke, “You. I never thought it would be you. But you have proven yourself, to a degree. And there is a place among us for you” – and here Wildecent noticed that there was one horse among them that did not have a rider – “once you fulfill your pact with this land and right the wrong that has been done to her and her daughters. Cymry shall have a prize far greater than that which you have already brought us, and you shall ride with us when you have succeeded. Go, my child, and wield your silver sickle to wreak your righteous vengeance in her name, and bring us the head of the dark sorcerer to renew the life of this land.”

With a start, Wildecent awoke to find the sun already high in the sky, her face pressed against cold stone. She had slept through the night and into the next day. Her dreams rang vividly in her mind. Sitting up, she wondered for a moment where she was, then realized that the stone she had been lying upon was in fact the very one marking the grave of none other than the Lady Ygurna. She remembered that in her dream, her foster aunt had called her “my child,” which she had never done in waking life, always preferring Alison. Next to her on the smooth grey stone lay a silver sickle. She did not know that a few short months ago, Ambrose too had slept here in the shadow of Ygurna’s grave. Such are the cruel coincidences of fate. 

*

A fortnight later, others returned to Hafwynder Manor as well. Among them were Alison Hafwynder, now the mistress of the manor, her betrothed Stephen, the Norman lord, and the sorcerer Ambrose, Stephen’s sworn friend. It was full summer, and spirits were high. Although Stephen had wanted to wait, worried for Alison’s well-being, she had insisted on returning to Hafwynder Manor as soon as possible. She had felt that she could not have stood the dreariness of Torworden, with its painful memories of Eudo and her shame at his hands, for any longer. Stephen’s uncle, too, was not averse to the idea of his returning to her lands with her to be their lord, as such a move would further secure his and the Normans’ hold on the countryside and make a transition to Norman rule, wihc now seemed more and more a possibility, less painful. And so they had set forth, and were now returning to lands which Alison knew well.

Indeed, the trip seemed to do her a world of good, as with every league they passed away from Torworden, she felt her soul growing lighter and her spirit stronger. She was finally returning home, finally free of the burden of shame and free to be with the man she loved without the overbearing influence of the gods she once served blindly. She now bore little outward traces of her painful ordeal in the forests near Torworden; although nightmares still tormented her at times, Stephen’s gentle affection and care and, though she was unaware of its presence, Ambrose’s subtle magic had served to soften the pain and heal her soul as well. And since her geas had been lifted by Wildecent’s sacrifice, the insistent voices of Lady Ygurna and the gods of the forest had also grown weaker and less insistent, and she no longer felt the compulsion to obey or be destroyed. The one thing that still shadowed her heart and that she could not forget was the fact that her sister, who had acted so courageously and selflessly, was still missing and had left no indications of her presence anywhere. Painful, too, was the knowledge that Wildecent still believed that Ambrose had betrayed them, although in reality he had been trying to save them, and probably, knowing her sister, still harbored a deep grudge against him. Alison herself had grown to forgive Ambrose for his meddling in her dealings with Stephen and realized that he was at heart the best friend her betrothed could possibly have. She knew too that the Byzantine sorcerer still bore in his heart a true and burning love for her sister, a love which she believed her sister would return in kind. This, along with the fact that Wildecent was surely alone and friendless, pained Alison to the core. Wildecent, more than anyone, deserved to be as happy as she, Alison, was, surrounded by friends and returning to the place she knew to be her true home.

*

A basket of herbs, carefully packaged against damage and weather, over her arm, Alison made her way in the late afternoon to the old bolt hole, starting the task of restoring the solar to its former state. Descending into the small, stone room, she breathed in the calm, cool air and felt a feeling of peace descend over her. She was home at last, after a tumultuous season where much had changed. 

Carefully placing bottles on the shelves, Alison noticed that the dust had been disturbed in a few places, as if someone had been there and had been searching for something, leaving trails in the dust. Upon closer inspection, a few bottles and herbs were missing, but nothing else had been disturbed and it was clear that whoever had taken the missing items had a clear idea of what she had wanted and where it might be found. There was only one other person besides Alison and her dead aunt that knew the contents of the solar well enough to be able to do that. 

“Wili?” she whispered in wild hope, but the still air betrayed none of its secrets.

Dust had already begun to regather over the places where the missing bottles had been, and Alison realized that that meant that Wildecent, if she had been there, had not returned during the last several days. It seemed that her sister had returned to Hafwynder Manor, her true home by upbringing if not by birth, as well, but her reasons and her exact whereabouts remained unclear. Still, the knowledge that her dear sister was nearby and seemingly well brought tears of relief to Alison’s eyes, and she resolved to search for her as soon as possible.

*

Glowing more and more brightly, the crystal moved in ever-dwindling circles over the miniature replica of Hafwynder Manor. The basket of light suspended above it hummed with a peculiar music of its own and light arced from wire to wire within the fine webwork of the basket. Concentrating fiercely, the owner of the hand from which the crystal hung seemed almost lost in reverie while the crystal moved with a life of its own.

Upon learning from Alison that she suspected her sister to be somewhere nearby, a surge of wild hope had immediately shot through the breast of the man who loved her, followed soon thereafter by a terrible sense of uncertainty. Would Wildecent, if she was nearby, so much as deign to speak to him, who had made such a fool of himself with her? He had retreated to his room in confusion to meditate and to attempt to sort out the tangled skeins of his love and his emotions. All the training of the Eastern magi had not prepared him for such a test of his will and his very being. He had been taught by the best to be a sorcerer and even a fighter, but when it came to simply being a man, he was as unskilled as, perhaps even more than, any other man.

The quiet towertop room that Ambrose for now called home had once belonged to Wildecent and her sister. Alison had graciously allowed him to have the room while she and Stephen took up residence in what had once been her father’s rooms, a fitting place for the lady of the manor and her chosen lord. In the tower room, Ambrose had already begun constructing a _micros_ , a miniature replica of the manor and its surrounding lands, beneath the structure of fine wires that Wildecent had called a “basket of light.” It had been something to occupy himself and keep his mind from fixating completely on the one subject that threatened to completely consume it. The thought of Wildecent was nevertheless always close to his heart, no matter how hard he tried not to dwell on it. He had worked largely from the memory of the similar construction he had built during his first stay at the manor, and the construction of the miniature went quickly and smoothly. 

Returning now to the room after Alison’s stunning disclosure, his head still reeling, Ambrose placed a fresh stick of sandalwood in the small brazier and sat down on the cushioned floor and tried to make sense of his tangled thoughts. His fingers toyed with his crystal talisman, which, as always, felt warm and responsive in his palm. He had the vague idea that he could find Wildecent using the _micros_ , as he had found Alison in the woods near Torworden. The problem was that, to be effective, such magic required the enhancing power of some personal belonging of the person for whom one was searching, and while some of Wildecent’s personal effects undoubtedly remained at the manor, likely in this very room, she herself had not been near them for a long while, and very little of her essence would still remain to aid in the magic. 

He had been idly swinging the crystal like a pendulum over the micros as he thought and the night passed swiftly along its heavenly course. With a start he realized that the talisman was not moving under the influence of gravity alone and that the wires above were humming almost imperceptibly. It was as if, even without the enhancement of a personal item, the crystal was trying to tell him where she was. He focused his thoughts more clearly on Wildecent, which was not difficult, and, amazingly, the movement of the crystal grew more resolute and the humming louder. She had used the basket of light that he had built, he realized, and _his_ talisman had responded to _her_ touch, something which he had never known could happen, and now the very thought of her had somehow awakened the magic that it had always taken something more material to invoke. He had never been taught of such things, but then again, his masters had always espoused the belief that love and sorcery could not be mixed. Now he realized that love and the joining of one soul to another was not death to magic, as he had always been taught, but rather life and magic as he had never before imagined possible. The addition of pure, unfettered emotion into the rational equations of sorcery was surely dangerous but more beautiful than the sweetest dream. Now he did not know how love could not prevail, and all of his earlier doubts burned away in the light of this new knowledge. His thoughts full of Wildecent, Ambrose felt a tremendous outpouring of power from his entire body as the wires sang and the crystal blazed. 

The talisman came to rest on a small strip of bare ground between the tiny trees of the forest and the blue line that was the river. His heart singing as jubilantly as the basket of light had sung, Ambrose flew down the narrow staircase and out into the awakening sunlight as though he had, like his heart, actually grown wings.

*

The familiar white hide coracle moved surely and rapidly downstream along the river which bordered the lands of Hafwynder Manor. Sitting in its prow, Alison watched the familiar landscape pass swiftly by. The current slowed at a place where the river angled slightly around a small promontory on the shore where the trees clustered thickly almost right up to the water’s edge. Alison recognized the spot as a particular place of power; Lady Ygurna had often brought her there to teach her of the Cymric mysteries. Any place along the riverbank, where the elements of earth and water met was by nature a wellspring of the ancient powers, but at certain locations the barrier between the hidden world of the gods and the mortal world was especially fragile. In these places communication with that other world was easier and less draining; it was said that the gods made their appearances in this world by passing through gateways located in these places of power. The great oak in the center of the forest they had passed through on their way to Torworden was one such place; the spot on the riverbank by which she sailed was another.

On the riverbank knelt a familiar figure. Dark hair fell over her face, obscuring it, but Alison knew that it was her sister. Before Wildecent loomed three great green figures, unnaturally tall. The third of the green men no longer wore the head of Thorkel Longsword, but was again headless. To Alison it seemed that the sunlight passed hazily through them as though they were fragile and built of dust. The three green kings of ancient Cymry had little hold over her soul now that she had been freed of her geas and had accepted the reality of change. She realized, however, that Wildecent did not see them in such a way, but rather perceived them still as she, Alison, had once done. To Wildecent, they were great and majestic beings who inspired awe and commanded obedience. She, not Alison, had performed the requisite sacrifice and so she was now the chosen of the gods. She was to be their instrument, their willing pawn.

Alison now became aware of a number of other figures, ranged around the three massive green kings. Dressed in crimson, the group of women was also familiar; she felt a moment of apprehension as she recalled their last meeting, how she could not join them on their vengeful ride and how the only alternative had been death, which she had only narrowly escaped. She realized, however, that this time the wild-eyed women paid her no heed, perhaps were not even aware of her presence. They watched solemnly as Wildecent made her obeisances to the three gods, and then one of the priestesses stepped forward and placed her hand upon Wildecent’s bowed shoulder and raised her upright. The gesture was familiar and spoke of acceptance. Wildecent stood and turned to face Lady Ygurna.

Ygurna, who in her life had always focused all her attention on the seemingly more magically apt Alison, now stood before her other niece, the one she had always ignored, and kissed her on the cheek in much the same way that Alison remembered being kissed as a girl. Stepping back, she held forward a fine silver sickle in her outstretched hands. Solemnly, Wildecent accepted the sickle; silver gleamed in her hands. She lifted the blade high above her head with both hands. Sunlight caught the sharp edge of the blade and streamed along its curve, a blinding arc of light. Suddenly it seemed to Alison, watching from her boat in the river, that the silver sheen grew darker and more liquid, as though the magic of the silver had caught the sunlight and had turned it into blood, and that blood was pouring down the sickle’s edge and the hands that grasped it, as it fell, still warm, onto Wildecent’s upturned face.

Alison wanted nothing more than to reach forward and pull her beloved sister away from that terrible shore, to save her from the ravenous desires of the treacherous gods and vengeful priestesses surrounding her. She tried to call out to Wildecent, to warn her, to call her back into herself with a familiar voice, but it seemed that her voice was lost on a sudden wind and thrown backward in the opposite direction. The rapidly escalating current carried her boat relentlessly forward and away from the shore, until Wildecent and the others had dwindled away into the distance, lost forever.

“Wildecent!” she cried aloud, and awoke to the echo of her own cry and the clear light of dawn arcing through the high eastern window. Stephen’s anxious face loomed over her. 

“I had a dream,” she told him, “and I think I know where Wildecent is. But we must hurry. I felt in my dream that Ygurna means to make something terrible of her, that they want her to sacrifice again. We must find her before they do.”

Stephen had many unanswered questions, but he had learned from being with Alison that she sensed things which he could not and that her dreams were often meaningful if not downright prophetic, so he stilled his curiosity and quickly dressed himself. He sent the first servant who appeared at their door to fetch Ambrose.

While they were gulping down the hot gruel that a second servant had brought, the first one reappeared with the news that the sorcerer was nowhere to be found, but that he had been seen rushing down the stairs and out of the building as though he were in a great hurry not long before.

*

Ambrose’s heart beat faster as he saw the light in his crystal talisman grow brighter and brighter. She must be near. He had followed the twin, intertwined beacons of his heart and his crystal into the trees and out to the river. He stepped forward from the cover of the trees onto a narrow strip of riverbank.

In the trees on the other side of the clearing, Wildecent steeled her heart and prayed that the herbal concoction that she had just drunk would work quickly and heighten the desire for vengeance while dulling the pain in her soul. She stepped out to face him.

“Wildecent – “ he began, his heart full and fluttering, and stopped speaking abruptly as a silver sickle materialized against his throat. His eyes widened in shock as he took in the wild look in her eyes.

“You cannot escape now. You must pay for what you have done to Alison. You must pay for your evil, dark sorcery and the faceless god shall have your head for the l ife of this land that you have tried to destroy,” she screamed, the thirst for vengeance welling up inside her. 

“Wildecent, you’ve made a terrible mistake – “

“Silence! You must die now for your crimes! Let the gods bear witness to my vengeance! O great gods, O Cymry, accept this sacrifice in your name!” She raised the sickle high above her head in preparation for a single swift stroke.

He shut his eyes, then opened them again and looked straight at her. “I love you, Wildecent.” At the same moment, a shout came from the surrounding trees.

“Wili! NO!”

“Alison?” she whispered, recognizing the familiar voice and falling to her knees. Ambrose took the opportunity to roll away from the descending silver blade. Her attention caught by his sudden motion, Wildecent again pressed the sickle to his throat, shaking her head to rid it of the apparition of Alison’s voice. She wondered if it had been one of Ambrose’s sorcerous tricks.

“Wildecent!” Alison came bursting out of the trees at a run, Stephen close behind her. While Ambrose had had to stop frequently and consult his crystal, Alison had the double advantages of knowing exactly where she was headed and of knowing every path through the woods in Hafwynder lands. She and Stephen had consequently made their way very rapidly to the riverbank and had almost overtaken their friend.

“Alison! You’re not dead! But I thought you were dead… “ she stammered, “Are you real? Or are you just one of his tricks?” She looked down at Ambrose, her knife still against his throat.

“It truly is me, Wili. I’m not dead. Stephen and Ambrose rescued me from Eudo and his men after you escaped. Oh, Wili, I’ve missed you.”

“Ambrose? But he betrayed us! You were right all along! He was just using me, seducing me into his web of sorcery just to use me, so that he could betray us and destroy you!” She glanced scornfully at the man trembling underneath her blade, then faltered as she looked into his eyes, those deep black eyes that were like looking into her own soul…

“Oh, Wili, Wili, don’t you see? I was wrong about Ambrose! He and Stephen were on their way to rescue us from Eudo when Bethanil heard them! I would be dead but for them.”

“He is the sacrifice the Cymric gods demand, the nameless god demands the head of the dark sorcerer taken in righteous vengeance to renew our land…” Wildecent protested, with less certainty.

“They’re using you just as they used me! They want you to kill Ambrose like they wanted me to kill Stephen. They demand love’s blood, but Wili, Wili, you shed blood once to free me of my geas, but you made no promises to them. They’re trying to trick you, they’re only using you…”

“But the gods, the land… ‘tis the only way to prevent bloodshed and ensure that the chosen people will prevail,” she protested weakly.

“Don’t you see? Change is already upon us. There is no stopping it, and time must move forward, and the gods and their rituals must change with them or fade away. They’re only using you, Wili, because they think they have you. Let there be no more blood shed. You told me that once. Don’t listen blindly to Ygurna and the rest of them, who are trying to remain unchanging forever. Don’t become one of those faceless, vengeful riders. You have your own life to live as you, not they, choose.”

She remembered that she had said those very same words, “I have my own life,” to Ambrose once while they were still at Torworden. She had also said, “I do not love you,” and known it for a lie even as her tongue shaped the treacherous words. And she still knew them for a lie now. Although it had been only less than a season ago, it seemed a very long time ago indeed, and the long darkness of the path she had traveled since swirled up and enveloped her.

*

She came to a few minutes later with the concerned faces of Alison and Stephen hovering over her. Her head was throbbing as she sat up gingerly and saw the third figure. Ambrose stood at the edge of the trees, his dark eyes troubled and downcast. From time to time, he cast a concerned glance in the direction of the small group on the riverbank.

She felt his eyes upon her, felt them burning into her heart, and realized that she was still clutching the silver sickle in her sweating hand. Suddenly the metal seemed to burn in her palm, and she felt that it would soon consume her with flames both searing and cold. Faces swirled before her – Alison, her face contorted with suffering, pleading with her not to abandon her to doom, but here was Alison well and healthy and seemingly holding no grudge. And there was Lady Ygurna, her hair wild as if with crimson flames, silver sickle held high like a beacon, offering her acceptance into the mysteries she had been denied her whole life. It would be so easy, just one pass with the sacred silver blade. And then there was Ambrose, his dark eyes, his spicy scent, the feel of velvet under her cheek, the spark that had passed through them that night long ago, and the promise of love. Then it was not so easy, it could not be done, and suddenly she realized what it was that Alison had had to face in that world where Stephen had laid dying in her arms. She would not be used, and she would not sacrifice again for the promise of acceptance that meant nothing but an empty immortality and for an ideal already flickering away. But love, love was an glory that would never change, that would endure like the land, though the gods that shaped it might melt away and become as the forms of those they opposed.

With a smooth motion, she flung the blade over the river, and the smooth silver crescent slashed a fine arc through the air before it broke the surface of the water and sank into the riverbed. Some of the weight on her heart lifted, and it seemed as if the silver lines of power hovering around the place grew somewhat less bright.

With some effort, she drew herself up weakly to a standing position and staggered forward, collapsing at the feet of the man she loved and breaking into a flood of tears. “Please forgive me, oh please forgive me I love you I am so sorry I love you I love you please forgive me…” s he sobbed.

Wordlessly, Ambrose reached down and raised her up gently so that they were standing face to face. He leaned forward, kissed her gently on the forehead, and clasped her tightly in his arms where she had so longed to be.


End file.
